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Skycleft: Tales from the Mad Bard [updated 11/04/04]
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<blockquote data-quote="threshel" data-source="post: 1804170" data-attributes="member: 5164"><p style="text-align: center">Introduction Part Two</p><p></p><p>Hurgen the carpenter slowly made his way up the line of stalled carts and wagons. His maul lay over his shoulder in a white-knuckled grip. His eyes were still glossy with recent tears as they searched the line ahead for the bright blond and broad backs of his boys. Through the cloth stuffed in his ears, he could hear the cries and wails of the entire party suffused with strains of song that still tugged at his mind. Gunild, the farmer with the two carts in front of his own, was still sitting in the driver’s seat of his farm cart, reigns dropped from his hands. The mule in the harness stood with ignorant patience, as did the cow tethered to the rear of the cart. Gunild’s mouth hung open in his lean face and his eyes looked far off while tears traced shiny lines on his cheeks. He listed slightly to one side, and looked in danger of falling off the wagon entirely. Hurgen forced himself to turn away, knowing that Arik was bringing their cart up and would help the man. Likewise for the next, Gunild’s wife Tairia; although it was harder to leave the woman curled up in the back of their home wagon, clutching her belly and cooing as if to a child.</p><p></p><p>Hurgen’s empty hand steadied him against the trunks of the tall trees as he negotiated the trail. The carts were prudently spaced to guard against accidents entangling multiple wagons. In the thickness of the wood, Hurgen couldn’t see more than the next couple of carts ahead at a time. The greengold split the forest into bands of light and dark, giving only frustrating glimpses of the settler’s line as it stretched through the wood. The next wagon belonged to a family, the Schadts. They were splayed about it like carelessly dropped cordwood, each mewling in their own torment. They didn’t seem aware of each other, and the children wailed in the dirt mere feet from their parents. Hurgen paused here long enough to lift the youngest child off the ground and place her in the arms of her mother, who curled reflexively around her. Hurgen’s grim lines became crevasses as he witnessed the Schadts publicly tour their own very private grief. The hydra-headed intrusion of song in his mind broke. It shattered against the wall of his anger and embarrassment. It stole away to its coiling through the leaves, and Hurgen dropped his maul to his right hand and began to run.</p><p></p><p>His breath shortened quickly, his knees popped; he stumbled and tripped over the uneven forest floor. His left hand was torn and bleeding from catching himself on rough bark and stone. Hurgen was a big strong man to be sure, but bulk and age are not a combination for agility. He passed carts and wagons, men and women, wailing children and oblivious animals. The scenes with Gunild and Tairia, with the Schadts, were duplicated again and again. He paused only to move babes into older arms, to guide those in danger of falling softly to the ground, and to ensure that no one was looking to end their pain in the most tragic fashion. Hurgen had known men who had taken their lives out of grief, and saw the same desperate look in the faces of many he passed. Fortunately, the song induced sadness seemed so incapacitating that those who would end it all lacked the presence of mind to do so.</p><p></p><p>Lungs burning, Hurgen counted himself lucky that they were in the wood. On the plains the settler’s caravan would stretch nearly a mile long. After a quarter of that, he guessed he was about halfway through the line. He was dimly aware that the music had gotten louder, but it held no entrancement for him now. The sound of it was strange, like no lute or guitar he’d ever heard. Something with strings, that was certain, but strings that were coaxed to cry and wail. Tremulous and tumbling, it built continuously upon itself. It leapt through leaves, twined around trunks, and danced in the dark bands between the greengold.</p><p></p><p>Hurgen skidded to a halt. Ahead, a well-built wagon lay on its side, new carpentry tools and provisions for trail lay scattered among clothes, pots, and barrels. The ox in the harness was laying down in effort to ease the discomfort of a twisted yoke. It’s irritated bleats mixed with the cries of the colonists and a new sound that caused the hair on Hurgen’s neck to stiffen in a cold rush. Slowly grinding a hatchet across his whetstone, Ilan Hurgensen sat facing his father, but his eyes were focused beyond him. The young man was red-faced and blubbering, his smooth skin twisted in grief and rage.</p><p></p><p>Ilan was the only other of Hurgen’s boys who lived in the home during Arik’s wasting and their mother’s subsequent decline and death. It tore at him that he could neither help his brother, and later his mother, nor could he make any decisions about his own life apprenticed as he was. It was a time of great pain mixed with the least control over any event in his life. Once his mother passed, some of that pain passed to Arik in the form of blame. Hurgen had seen it, they had dealt with it then, and the brothers had once again become as close as they were prior. Hurgen could see now the music had opened old wounds, and the same stubborn strength that had allowed Arik to act to save his father was now allowing Ilan to act. The music was louder here, though. Ilan couldn’t shake its influence. All he could do was sharpen and look towards the rear of the line. Hurgen knew it wouldn’t last. Ilan was working himself to a crescendo; the cadence of his incoherent speech and twitching of his right shoulder said that he was already seeing the act take place. His body would soon follow. Hurgen’s boys were about to be set at one another in murderous rage.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="threshel, post: 1804170, member: 5164"] [CENTER]Introduction Part Two[/CENTER] Hurgen the carpenter slowly made his way up the line of stalled carts and wagons. His maul lay over his shoulder in a white-knuckled grip. His eyes were still glossy with recent tears as they searched the line ahead for the bright blond and broad backs of his boys. Through the cloth stuffed in his ears, he could hear the cries and wails of the entire party suffused with strains of song that still tugged at his mind. Gunild, the farmer with the two carts in front of his own, was still sitting in the driver’s seat of his farm cart, reigns dropped from his hands. The mule in the harness stood with ignorant patience, as did the cow tethered to the rear of the cart. Gunild’s mouth hung open in his lean face and his eyes looked far off while tears traced shiny lines on his cheeks. He listed slightly to one side, and looked in danger of falling off the wagon entirely. Hurgen forced himself to turn away, knowing that Arik was bringing their cart up and would help the man. Likewise for the next, Gunild’s wife Tairia; although it was harder to leave the woman curled up in the back of their home wagon, clutching her belly and cooing as if to a child. Hurgen’s empty hand steadied him against the trunks of the tall trees as he negotiated the trail. The carts were prudently spaced to guard against accidents entangling multiple wagons. In the thickness of the wood, Hurgen couldn’t see more than the next couple of carts ahead at a time. The greengold split the forest into bands of light and dark, giving only frustrating glimpses of the settler’s line as it stretched through the wood. The next wagon belonged to a family, the Schadts. They were splayed about it like carelessly dropped cordwood, each mewling in their own torment. They didn’t seem aware of each other, and the children wailed in the dirt mere feet from their parents. Hurgen paused here long enough to lift the youngest child off the ground and place her in the arms of her mother, who curled reflexively around her. Hurgen’s grim lines became crevasses as he witnessed the Schadts publicly tour their own very private grief. The hydra-headed intrusion of song in his mind broke. It shattered against the wall of his anger and embarrassment. It stole away to its coiling through the leaves, and Hurgen dropped his maul to his right hand and began to run. His breath shortened quickly, his knees popped; he stumbled and tripped over the uneven forest floor. His left hand was torn and bleeding from catching himself on rough bark and stone. Hurgen was a big strong man to be sure, but bulk and age are not a combination for agility. He passed carts and wagons, men and women, wailing children and oblivious animals. The scenes with Gunild and Tairia, with the Schadts, were duplicated again and again. He paused only to move babes into older arms, to guide those in danger of falling softly to the ground, and to ensure that no one was looking to end their pain in the most tragic fashion. Hurgen had known men who had taken their lives out of grief, and saw the same desperate look in the faces of many he passed. Fortunately, the song induced sadness seemed so incapacitating that those who would end it all lacked the presence of mind to do so. Lungs burning, Hurgen counted himself lucky that they were in the wood. On the plains the settler’s caravan would stretch nearly a mile long. After a quarter of that, he guessed he was about halfway through the line. He was dimly aware that the music had gotten louder, but it held no entrancement for him now. The sound of it was strange, like no lute or guitar he’d ever heard. Something with strings, that was certain, but strings that were coaxed to cry and wail. Tremulous and tumbling, it built continuously upon itself. It leapt through leaves, twined around trunks, and danced in the dark bands between the greengold. Hurgen skidded to a halt. Ahead, a well-built wagon lay on its side, new carpentry tools and provisions for trail lay scattered among clothes, pots, and barrels. The ox in the harness was laying down in effort to ease the discomfort of a twisted yoke. It’s irritated bleats mixed with the cries of the colonists and a new sound that caused the hair on Hurgen’s neck to stiffen in a cold rush. Slowly grinding a hatchet across his whetstone, Ilan Hurgensen sat facing his father, but his eyes were focused beyond him. The young man was red-faced and blubbering, his smooth skin twisted in grief and rage. Ilan was the only other of Hurgen’s boys who lived in the home during Arik’s wasting and their mother’s subsequent decline and death. It tore at him that he could neither help his brother, and later his mother, nor could he make any decisions about his own life apprenticed as he was. It was a time of great pain mixed with the least control over any event in his life. Once his mother passed, some of that pain passed to Arik in the form of blame. Hurgen had seen it, they had dealt with it then, and the brothers had once again become as close as they were prior. Hurgen could see now the music had opened old wounds, and the same stubborn strength that had allowed Arik to act to save his father was now allowing Ilan to act. The music was louder here, though. Ilan couldn’t shake its influence. All he could do was sharpen and look towards the rear of the line. Hurgen knew it wouldn’t last. Ilan was working himself to a crescendo; the cadence of his incoherent speech and twitching of his right shoulder said that he was already seeing the act take place. His body would soon follow. Hurgen’s boys were about to be set at one another in murderous rage. [/QUOTE]
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Skycleft: Tales from the Mad Bard [updated 11/04/04]
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